Member-only story
The Truth About Us
A Poem
You have your pick of men, dear Asha, but they don’t satisfy you like I do (or so I’d like to think).
You tell me it’s time to get a haircut, but I’d rather run a marathon.
I could be your husband and we could slam every night, make a human sandwich of passion.
Make yourself useful you say, and so I do.
We want no offspring, just sugar, just a bronze statue in the town square, a couple of heroes of sex.
I might have to leave the country if the supply of passion runs low, and you know the state of things nowadays — it’s hardly a place to live.
You’re so vigorous in your lovings, I could write a sermon and deliver it to a stadium full of listeners, the message creeping into every crevice spreading hope for humankind.
When my alarm goes off in the morning, I only hope you’re there with me to kiss me goodbye.
But I digress — I can’t reproduce this feeling with anyone else, I’ve tried, believe me.
You have that module that I want, some part of you I try to get at but never fully succeed.
So, I run away like a deer when the dawn comes, our bodies unable to rub together because of my duty.
